The O'Donoghue Part 51

"It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me when absent--as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in these calumnies. I have told you enough of my life to let you know in what circ.u.mstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been forced upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they in revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspicion. I know it has already happened; bear it well in mind, and when your friend Henry Talbot is a.s.sailed, remember the explanation and your own promise."

Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true friendship.

"Sit down beside me, Mark," said he, placing the chairs at the table, "and read this."

With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already broken.

"This is addressed to your father, Mark," said he, showing him the superscription.

"I know that hand-writing," said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; "that is Father Rourke's."

"Yes, that's the name," said Talbot, opening the letter. "Read this,"

and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud--

"Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December, same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff.

Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler."

"And what of all that," said Mark, with a voice of evident disappointment. "Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism to claim my name or my kindred?"

"No, but to claim your estate and fortune," said Talbot, hurriedly.

"Do you not perceive the date of this doc.u.ment--1774--and that you only attained your majority on last Christmas day----"

"That cannot be," interrupted Mark. "I joined my father in a loan upon the estate two years ago; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the same time, and I must have been of age to do so."

"That does not follow," said Talbot, smiling. "It suited the objects of others to make you think so; but you were little more than nineteen at the time. Here's the certificate of your mother's marriage, and the date is February, 1773."

Mark's countenance became perfectly bloodless, his lips grew livid, while his nostrils were alternately distended and contracted violently, as he breathed with a heaving effort.

"You have your choice, therefore," said Talbot, flippantly, "to believe your father, a man of honour, or your mother----"

"Stop," cried Mark, as he seized his arm and shook it in his strong grasp; "speak the word, and, by Heaven, you'll never leave this spot alive."

Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly said--

"It was not my wish to hurt your feelings, Mark. Very little reflection on your part might convince you, that I can have no object to serve here, save my regard for you. You seemed to doubt what I said about your age, and I wished to satisfy you at once that I was correct. You were not of age till last December. A false certificate of birth and baptism enabled your father to raise a considerable sum of money with your concurrence, and also permitted him to make a sale to Hemsworth of a property strictly entailed on you and yours. Both these acts were illegal and unjust. If Hemsworth be the rightful owner of that estate your birth is illegitimate--nay, nay--I am but putting the alternative, which you cannot, dare not accept. You must hear me with temper, Mark--calmly and patiently. It is a sad lesson when one must learn to think disparagingly of those they have ever looked up to and revered.

But remember, that when your father did this act, he was surrounded with difficulties on every hand. There seemed no escape from the dangers around him; inevitable ruin was his lot: he doubtless intended to apply a considerable portion of this money to the repair of his shattered fortunes--of his affection for you there can be no question----"

"There, there," said Mark, interrupting him rudely; "there is no need to defend a father to his son. Tell me, rather, why you have revealed this secret to me at all, and to what end have you added this to the other calamities of my fortune?"

He stood up as he said these words, and paced the room with slow steps, his head sunk upon his bosom, and his arms dropped listlessly at his side. Talbot looked upon the figure, marked with every trait of despondency, and for some moments he seemed really to sorrow over the part he had taken; then rallying with his accustomed energy, he said--

"If I had thought, Mark, that you had neither ambition for yourself, nor hatred for an enemy, I would never have told you these things. I did fancy, however, that you were one who struggled indignantly against an inglorious fortune, and, still more, believed that you were not of a race to repay injury with forgetfulness. Hemsworth, you have often told me, has been the insulting enemy of your family. Not content with despoiling you of fortune, he has done his utmost to rob you of fair fame--to reduce an honoured house to the ign.o.ble condition of peasants, and to break down the high and haughty spirit of a n.o.ble family by the humiliating ills of poverty. If you can forgive his injuries, can you forget his insults and his taunts?"

"Would you have me repay either by arraigning my father as a criminal?"

"Not so, Mark; many other courses are open to you. The knowledge of this fact by you, places you in a position to make your own terms with Hemsworth. He who has spent thirty thousand pounds on a purchase without a t.i.tle, must needs yield to any conditions you think fit to impose--you have but to threaten-----"

"That I will expose my father in a court of justice," said Mark, between his teeth; "that I will put money in one scale, and the honour of my house in the other; that I will truck the name and credit of my race, against the acres that were theirs. No, no; you mistake me much; you know little of the kind of vengeance my heart yearns for, or you would never have tempted me with such a bait as this."

"Be it so," said Talbot, coolly; "Hemsworth is only the luckier man that has met such a temperament as yours to deal with; a vulgar spirit like mine would have turned the tables upon him. But I have done; keep the paper, Mark, there might come a time when it should prove useful to you.

Hark!--what's that noise below? Don't you hear that fellow Lawless voice in the court-yard?"--and as he spoke, the voice of the host, Billy Crossley, raised very high above its usual pitch, called out--

"I tell you, gentlemen, Mr. Talbot is not in the house; he dined out to-day, and has not returned since dinner."

A confused murmur followed this announcement; and again Crossley said, but in a still louder tone--

"You have perfect liberty to look for him wherever you please; don't say that I gave you any impediment or hindrance; follow me--I'll show you the way."

Talbot knew in a moment the intention of the speaker, and recognized in Crossley's vehemence an urgent warning to himself.

"I'm tracked, Mark," cried he; "there, take that key--burn the papers in that desk--all of them. At seven to-morrow, meet me on the strand; if all be safe, I'll be true to time; if not----"

The remainder of his sentence was cut short by the hurrying sounds of feet upon the stairs, and Crossley's voice, which in its loudest key continued to protest that Talbot was not in the house, nor had he seen him since dinner.

Mark hastily unlocked the desk and took out the papers, but when he turned round, Talbot was gone; a tremulous motion of the tapestry on the wall seemed to indicate that his escape had been made through some secret door behind it. He had no time, however, to think further of the circ.u.mstance, for scarcely had he applied the lighted candle to the papers, when the door was burst violently open, and three strange men, followed by Lanty Lawler, entered the room, while Crossley, whom they had pushed roughly aside, stood without, on the lobby, still talking as loudly as before.

"Is that him?" said one of the fellows, who seemed like a constable in plain clothes.

"No," whispered Lanty, as he skulked behind the shoulder of the speaker; "that's another gentleman."

"Were you alone in this apartment?" said the same man who spoke first, as he addressed Mark in the tone of authority.

"It is rather for me to ask what business you have to come here?"

replied Mark, as he continued to feed the flames with the letters and papers before him.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 334]

"You shall see my warrant when you have answered my question. Meanwhile these may be of some consequence," said the other, as, approaching the hearth, he stooped down to seize the burning papers.

"They do not concern you," said Mark, as he placed his foot in the very middle of the blaze.

"Stand back, sir," cried the constable, half raising his arm to enforce the command.

"Lay but a finger on me," said Mark, scornfully, "and I'll dash your head against the wall."

The insolence of this threat might have been followed by ill consequences, had not Lanty sprung hastily forward, and, catching the constable by the arm, cried out--

"It is the O'Donoghue of Glenflesk, a young gentleman of rank and fortune."

"What do we care for his rank or fortune," said the other, pa.s.sionately.

"If he obstructs the King's warrant for the arrest of a traitor or a felon, I value him no more than the meanest beggar in the street. Those papers there, for all I know, might throw light on the whole plot."

"They are at your service now," said Mark, as, with a kick of his foot, he dashed the blackened embers from him, and sent them in floating fragments through the room.

Unwilling as he seemed to continue a contest in which his authority had met only defiance, the constable gave the order to his underlings to make a strict search of the apartment and the bed-room which opened into it, during which Mark seated himself carelessly in an arm-chair, and taking a newspaper from the table, affected to read it.

Lanty stood for a few seconds, irresolute what to do; then stealing softly behind Mark's chair, he muttered, in a broken voice--